


Triskelion

by fluffy_heretic (terryh_nyan)



Category: DRAMAtical Murder (Visual Novel)
Genre: Angst, Death, Established Relationship, Hinduism, M/M, Songfic, Spoilers, Suffering, What-If
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-07
Updated: 2015-01-07
Packaged: 2018-03-06 13:10:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3135656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/terryh_nyan/pseuds/fluffy_heretic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Life is a loop. And Clear's the only one left out.<br/>(General spoilers for Clear's main game and Re:Connect routes)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Triskelion

**Author's Note:**

> alright first things first LISTEN TO THE SONG IT'S VERY IMPORTANT sets the atmosphere and all (it's called "See Me In Shadow" by Delain). also the order of the narration is not necessarily the chronological one so like the second part may come before the first part and the last part's sentences are all mixed up. probably shouldn't tell you beforehand but confusing fic is confusing so whatevs. last note: i wrote this months ago and it wasn't out yet that Clear worked at Mizuki's tattoo shop so i gave him a less charming job that in my head kind of made sense?? yeah so. bring forth the tears

I

_Standing by the ruins of your soul  
That cries for some more meaning_

  


That night, Clear dreams of Aoba.

He's lulled into the vision by his faint breaths, little by little, until the sound dissolves under the chronic _beep_ of the machines and Clear can make out the outlines of a familiar hospital room.

The light flooding inside is blinding. It seeps through the links of the curtains like a blanket of quills, strong enough to hurt his eyes. Instantly, it reminds him of what day this is: it's the day Clear offers to draw the blinds, but _he_ shakes his head, ever so slightly, to the point that no other creature would've caught it; the day Aoba places his hand on Clear's arm, paper-thin, and squeezes the fabric of his lab coat between his fingers with the same force he would've used to lift a kitten. The day he tells him, in a murmur, that he wants to walk.

Clear's heart – whether his dream self's or his dreaming self's, he does not know; he only knows it hurts so much he could start screaming – convulses upon itself, taking shelter in the furthest corner of his ribcage: the sensation is so real, even he can't help but feeling flesh and blood, when pain grips him so tightly right at the center of his chest, knotting his veins and his throat in a single, burning tangle. He tells himself that it's because Aoba-san is there. He tells himself that, in the end, it might be the sum of the grief of them both.

It's the day Aoba lets Clear help him to the window, resting a white hand on the window sill to feel the sun. Clear watches with wonder those relaxed, steady fingers, as if the tremors that had passed through them up to the day before were only a pale memory. His gaze too, in the late morning light, seems to be shining with a new, strange flame: his eyes lie with no interest on the landscape, and yet they're all but absent, as if they're simply paying attention to something else. Clear would say they look one step away from serenity.

Aoba-san's lips part, but it's difficult to grasp what they're saying. Clear remembers having listened to and stored with care every single word but, right now, the light's too bright to distinctly make out Aoba's mouth's movements, and Clear's thoughts won't stop revolving around the naïve, happy consideration that Aoba-san looks so much less of an evanescent presence than he has in weeks.

It's only when Aoba's thin fingers intertwine warmly with his own that Clear realises they're parting words.

The vision starts to collapse. Clear is trying desperately to grasp their meaning: there's a request, at the bottom of those words, a request that feels terribly important, but the dream's swallowed by the darkness behind his eyelids before Clear can figure out what it is.

When the cold of the night stings his cheeks, when the feeling of Aoba-san's fingers laced with his is replaced by numbness because he's gripping the pillow too hard for his own good, when he _wakes up_ , Clear drowns everything in that pillow, even himself.

 

_Wondering when you have  
Become so cold_

  


II

_And all the pictures of your past are gone_

  


That night, Clear dreams of Ren.

Under the artificial light of the laptop's screen, his fur looks almost electric blue: time has consumed Ren in more places than he can count, but his fluffy, shiny coat was never one of those. Closing the square little door on the back of his head, Clear takes a moment to plunge his hands into that fur, in a soft, deep stroke that the pomeranian would hardly allow. He then taps lightly on his head, smiling when the Allmate's eyes open, if with a little effort, and slowly light up.

"Everything's fine, you just needed a change of oil! How do you feel, Ren-san?"

Ren stretches tentatively his legs forward, pricking up his ears. Satisfied by the lack of audible squeaking and creaking, the pomeranian straightens his back and nods. "No problem".

Squeezing him just a little longer, Clear sighs. "Thank God! I was so worried when you suddenly stopped. Don't ever do it again, promise?".

Ren's ears flop down nervously. "I apologize. I'm always giving you trouble".

"Eh? Don't even joke about it!" he scolds him with a pout, and he emphasizes those words by ruffling his fur wildly. "We'd be lost without you, Ren-san~".

The Allmate doesn't try to wriggle out of his hold but for a handful of seconds, before letting his paws hang from Clear's arm and give in to the tidal wave of cuddling that fate has in store for him: perfectly content, Clear sets him on his lap, his tail neatly folded behind his back and his frame so small and blue it seems ready to melt into the darkness of the room at the first chance.

Ren doesn't move. He just curls up closer to Clear's stomach, in a thick, fleecy little donut, like he's suddenly grown colder. When Clear feels the dry touch of his nose lying passively against the back of his hand, he knows for sure that something's not right.

"Ren-san... ?"

The pomeranian turns his muzzle towards him, slowly, like a compass' needle. Even in the darkness of the room, his troubled expression manages to sting Clear's heart in a subtle, painful way. "I don't think I'm going to need any more mantainence, from now on. So... ". Ren hesitates, and he lays a pink paw on the hand resting on his side.

"Thank you, Clear. For everything".

Clear swallows with difficulty. The back of his eyes is pulsating, an unwelcome itch that spreads all the way down his throat and grips him hard right where a human being would have a heart. He doesn't trust himself to reply, not now: his voice seems to have curled up at the bottom of his stomach, and his fingers have started shaking.

Ren's outlines melt with the shadows as the computer screen's light grows dimmer and dimmer. His eyelids close and, with a sigh, he lets himself rest against Clear's belly, in the same position Clear had seen him huddle at the feet of a certain person's bed time and time again.

He wants to say something. He remembers that he did, but, right now, the words rasp against his palate like sandpaper: the darkness swallows the laptop, the room, Ren, until all that's left is Clear's shilouette at the center of a enormous empty space, alone.

When he wakes, Clear does everything in his power to kick back to the pit of his stomach that unpleasant pressure stuck in his throat, but all he manages is to pour it out in few, dry sobs inside a pillow that has never felt so hard.

  


_So cold_

  


III

_Standing by the paintings of your dreams_  
_But you have awoken_  
_And all the purples and the greens_  
_Have turned to black_

  


That night, Clear dreams of his grandfather.

He dreams of his faded smile, vague and unpredictable as the ocean tide, and of a faraway echo of his voice. Dreams of stretching his ears as much as he can to catch the words and, when he does, all that's left for him is to taste those three syllables and try to remember where he's heard them before: teeth, throat, lips.

It was recently, but he can't remember.

What startles Clear back to reality is a sudden, quick snap of fingers an inch from his nose. He needs a moment to focus the outlines of the silhouette in front of him, the shape of a woman and her deeply annoyed scowl: the freckles crowding her cheeks look like tiny embers, ready to burst into flames at the slightest poke, her hair dancing around her face like wildfire.

Clear recognizes her moody eyes, her brusque ways, the pastel shades of her clothes. He recognizes her irritated tone and the excited voices of the kids darting around in the post office, psyched about picking up a package from uncle Kio or uncle Nao. Clear shakes away his thoughts and, with an apologetic smile, he rushes off to take a look inside the heaps of mail brimming over every cart and storage room of the Delivery Works.

Usually, while his hands rummage through the packages, he'd be humming; or he'd be chatting, keeping informed about the lives of the people who've become an important part of his work days, people who always have something new and wonderful to tell. Now, however, a sense of unease swells in his every nerve, and Clear's voice stays stuck at the center of his throat no matter how hard he pushes.

That reality so vivid, so alive, is suddenly dyed with the same watery colors of the scenes in his memory. He can see the burly figure of his grandfather blur in the round shape of Yoshie-san, but her eyes too, painfully bright yet kind, blend into an indefinite stain belonging to another time, another piece of his life stuck in place and impossible to move.

Mio and her kids are fading, too, slowly but surely, in a murky mixture that has nothing to do with the present; and it's not fair, because they, at least, are still there, just an arm away from his fingertips, along with the shop, along with a Midorijima that's never, ever, the same.

Clear misses it. He misses the familiar atmosphere of the four walls of the Delivery Works. He misses the one thousand different greetings from the one thousand different clients that come visit him every day, every week, every month. He misses walking home after closing shop, stopping by to swap Yoshie-san's flowers with fresh ones on the way, peeking his head into forgotten alleys to pick up bottles he's seen shining out of the corner of his eye. He misses mentally reviewing Tae-san's advice on the best remedies for common colds when he swings by the Eastern Cemetery; he misses putting a foot in front of the other all the way to the North District but, most of all, he misses turning into the small lane that ends up _home_.

Not at his grandfather's house. _Home_.

While this dream, too, unravels and disappears in front of his despairing eyes, Clear sinks his hands into his hair and _screams_ , like a cornered, wounded animal.

He wants to go back right now. He wants to shake the midnight off his skin and run, run across rooftops and run out of breath, just to gaze for a handful of seconds upon the familiar edges of the places he's learned to love so much in this life, places that have broadened his world more than he would've ever dared to hope.

Otherwise, he'd like to sleep. Sleep until the dreams are over, even if a voice at the back of his mind fainly reminds him that that's not the promise he made.

But he can't remember.

When he wakes, Clear only hopes that it's the last time.

_And the ruins of your soul_  
_Have died, no more meaning_  
_I wonder when you have_  
_Become so cold_

  


I

_"What are you going to do... after?"_

_Forget yourself_

_"I'm sorry"._

_And who you are_

_"For not staying with you a little longer"._

_Another life is_

_"Clear... would you sing for me?"_

_Not that far..._

That night, Clear dreams again.  


 

**Author's Note:**

> (oh yeah i forgot to mention this fic was translated from Italian so there's probably a couple mistakes here and there. please forgive)


End file.
